Nail clippers. The ideal way to create that perfect run in new tights. Threadbare yet fashionable, worn but intentional. Simply pinch a bit of the nylon fabric on your thighs, snip, and pull—the run will glide easily in both directions, giving you flawlessly distressed black tights.
Back in the mid-to-late 2000s, this was my go-to ritual. I picked up a cheap pair of tights from the back aisles of CVS, packaged in a small plastic ball with a pale pink lid, costing just $1.99. I’d retrieve the nail clippers, do my little alteration, and off I went. They usually paired well with an oversized crew neck sweatshirt or a thrifted button-down. At times, I’d wear them with a baggy t-shirt or a men’s henley. Pants were a rarity.
No matter the occasion, this outfit formula accompanied me to a 7 a.m. class at my prim Upper East Side college, and also out to the latest club where my style choices felt like a rebellious reaction to the surrounding Herve Leger Bandage dresses.
There was a trend I was following back then. Indie sleaze is what it has been labeled in hindsight. It was a fashion period impulsed by the sense that our cultural interactions were changing for good. The advent of social media was rapidly approaching, with each day amplifying its influence. Our lives transitioned increasingly online, and we were oblivious to the ramifications. We existed in the last moments where one could find their identity without it being entirely dictated by an algorithm. However, the internet still served as a platform for us to share our interests and discover them in music stores or vintage shops.
The change for me was gradual. I grew up, sure; I was working in offices and upscale restaurants, no longer the 18-year-old scouring Salvation Army for unique fashion pieces on a $30 budget. Yet, I was also influenced by something bigger. Fast fashion trends raced by, and vintage stores became increasingly curated. Aesthetics like hot girl summers, French girl chic, and quiet luxury drained every bit of creative expression I had left. Despite my efforts to resist a problematic cycle, I felt overwhelmed in the tussle between wanting to blend in and my need to stand out.
So, when I reflect on my years with torn tights, I think of someone with a distinct sense of style. A person who was unafraid to embrace her unique fashion choices, even if others disapproved. Because regardless of the environment, I donned outfits that resonated with me, that I could feel and hear, and opinions from those around me were inconsequential.
While I might not return to intentionally ripping my tights or wearing an overly short shirt as a dress, my style resolution for 2025 is to rediscover that version of myself. The one who made fashion decisions based on genuine attraction; ones I discovered on my own, dared to showcase, and which weren’t just handed to me by an algorithm nudging us toward a dull, beige norm.
